by Black, D. S.
Before The Fever, Thompson made (after taxes) a cool five hundred thousand dollars a year. As a single man, living in a humble apartment, this gave him a great deal of disposable income. A large chunk of which went to trips to Vietnam. He'd met a man there who specialized in finding sadistic white men sexual playthings.
Thompson would have preferred white American boys, but finding a supplier of underage sex in America simply wasn't a good idea. Was it possible? Oh yes! you best believe it, but the local law in conjunction with the FBI were a bit more adept at cracking down on sex rings than the authorities in Vietnam; where the American dollar went quite a long way in greasing the Communist authorities. So, he spent his month-long vacation every year in Vietnam, and the rest of the year in Charleston, SC where White Privilege was a way of life.
Of course, White Privilege was a myth. Just ask any of the many Republicans (or even the idealistic libertarians). Blacks were simply more prone to violence by their very nature; to hell with what the liberal sociologists say about race being social instead of biological. Just more hippy dippy, liberal-socialist-Marxist nonsense trying to invade American Republicanism; just socialists trying to undermine the capitalist economy, so they could give welfare to lazy blacks (and Thompson would admit, lazy white trailer trash as well), so they could feed their ten kids while their baby daddies drank cheap malt liquor from the local Kangaroo.
Meanwhile, the White Man in his clean-cut business attire held the world economy on his back like on the cover of Ayn Rand's Atlas Shrugged. So, what if the White Man might have a few extra perks; he by golly deserved it.
To make matters worse, Thompson saw it wasn't just blacks and lazy spicks eating up all his hard-earned money. It was the other half of humanity: Women! women wanted the White Man's money to pay for baby killing operations like Planned Parenthood. They wanted free contraception, equal pay, equal say; my dear God, who do they think they are? and boy oh boy; friends and neighbors, those crazy commie cunts have been succeeding at dragging White America into the gutters of liberalism.
Then came The Fever. If there was a God, Thompson was quite positive The Fever was his way of putting an end to liberal bullshit. The Fever opened new doors of opportunity to the White Man. Now a proper society could be built. A society where women were property, and blacks knew their proper place in the racial, social hierarchy. The New World belonged to the White Man.
Unlike the soldiers under his command, Thompson didn't do the White Mist. No one, Lieutenant level and up did the White Mist. Maintaining control was important, and he could not go that high as a kite. The Mountain King made that very clear from the beginning.
Not that he'd met The Mountain King, few had; only the colonels and a few of the captains, and only the Mountain King chose the captains and colonels. Thompson wasn't sure what it was about the men that became captains and colonels in the Militia; there was something about them that was the same. He thought maybe they were all former law enforcement, but didn’t know that for sure. It was as though they'd all belonged to the same club before the Fever. What club that might have been, well Thomson didn't know, but by god if sacking this fucking city didn't earn him the right to a promotion, then nothing would. And if Cap didn’t like it, then maybe it was time for Cap to go the way of the dinosaurs.
The Teach Family
1
Darkness surrounded Jack Teach, while a bar of swampy moonlight drifted through an open window, streaking across his face. He lay in a semi-unconscious state; slowly, his nervous system reminded him of the pain coursing through his body. The smell of infection was nauseating. Breathing caused him exhaustion, and his eyes barely stayed open. How did this happen? he wondered, absorbed in pain and regret. What in God’s name was I thinking? Outside the world was dark, frogs were burping, and something was moving.
Where is she? It hurts so much.
2
24 Hours Earlier
Jack stared through an open window. Hot morning air blew against his face, and his round black-rimmed glasses slipped down his sweaty nose. Jack pushed them back in place, breathing in the smell of decaying vegetation and animal matter. A frog croaked somewhere in the thickness of the surrounding cypress trees. Dark mist floated like a cloudy haze, casting worrying doubt over the swampy wetland. The vegetation was gray; desaturated.
He dunked a spoon into a can, lifted it out, and swallowed a mouthful of cold beans as he watched sparks fly in the face of his cousin. Andrew, putting the final touches on the pontoon boat. Sweat streamed black grease down Andrew’s thin arms; faded green BDUs hung loosely around his legs, and his black boots dug into the soft marsh. Not far from him, sitting on a bench, Candy cleaned rifles with her daughters. The girls sang a low and melancholy tune, like a song from a funeral. Their legs dangled out of pale denim shorts; their hands rubbed bullets with stained red rags.
“They don’t have to shine girls — just gotta kill,” said Candy. Jody blew right by them in his usual haste. His oversized belly jiggled as he carried a bag of ammunition, loading the gear into the boat as sparks continued to fly into Andrew’s masked face.
Behind Jack, Papa spoke. “You about ready, Jack?”
“Ready as I’ll ever be.”
“Today the reign of terror ends. Today we fight back. Don’t look concerned, Jack. I believe in you,” the old man said.
“What do you think Mema would say about all this?” asked Jack.
In the distance, Jack watched his family prepare to leave. A haunting morning dew surrounded them. Ghosts, he thought. Sweet Jesus, they look like ghosts.
“She’d be damn proud! She’d be happy that you and your cousins are fighting back. Ain’t no way to know what she’d think about dead people walking around. Hell, nobody saw that one coming.”
“You’re right. She would want us to go out and help people, she wouldn’t want us to hide here forever.”
Jack turned around. His grandfather’s back was hunched. The old man tried to keep good posture in his wheelchair, but slumped involuntarily; he stared at his grandson. “I’m proud of you boy.”
His body was shriveled and frail, his skin wrinkled and splotched. His eyes were dark gray, and his hair was streaked silvery white. “I know, Papa… I know.” A white wife-beater clung to Papa’s scaly skin, and the imprint of a pacemaker protruded from his chest.
The sound of the boat engine roared outside, while the girls’ happy squeals rang through the air. Jack turned and stuck his head out the window. “We ready, Andrew?”
He removed his welding mask, gave Jack a silent thumbs-up, and wiped a thick coat of sweat from his brow.
“Time to rock and roll!” Jack said
Jack turned to find Papa smiling gleefully. “I really should go,” he said. His yellow teeth were sparse rotten; his chin was thin, and his neck was frail with loose skin.
“You would only slow us down, old man. Plus, who would look after the girls while we’re gone?”
“Shit! I don’t look after them, boy. They look after me!”
Jack paced behind the old man, and gripped the handles of his wheelchair. The handles were red and cracked, and the old wood floor creaked beneath the wheels as Jack pushed Papa out the rickety front door and onto the splintered porch. The sun threatened to poke through the grayish green canopy above. Throughout the marshy island, thick trunks of cypress trees disappeared into the black water. From within the fog, the wildlife murmured like eerie ghosts waiting to reveal themselves.
Jack pushed him down a rough concrete slant. The old man whistled an old war melody while Jack rolled through the thick air. It wasn’t even nine o’clock yet, and sweat was already dribbling down every inch of his body.
The girls ran up to Papa. “Let us push him!” begged Candy.
“Yes ma’am.”
She punched Jack in the shoulder. “You ready to make our mark on this apocalyptic shithole?”
Jody marched right over. “Don’t bruise him up baby. We need his skinny behind!”
>
“Rather be skinny than have a fat belly like you,” said Jack. “How the hell do you have that bulky pouch anyway? It’s not like we’re eating steak and potatoes these days.”
“I’m just big-boned.”
Andrew shouted from the boat, “Ain’t never seen a fat skeleton, Jody!”
Candy kissed her husband on the cheek. “At least we know the dead will eat you first, babe.”
“Enough clamming! It’s getting late, and you kids have a long mission ahead,” Papa said.
Jack turned and looked down. “You really enjoy playing General, huh?”
“Lucky for you, I whupped the Germans a long time ago. Compared to storming Normandy, this is a walk in the park!”
Jack walked over to the boat and smacked Andrew on the shoulder. “You sure this thing won’t sink?”
Andrew looked up with a sly grin. “Nothing I’ve fixed has ever sunk.”
“I don’t know about that… do you remember that inflatable raft?”
“Shit! That was what, fifteen years ago?” Andrew laughed, scratching his unkempt goatee.
Behind Jack, Candy and Jody kissed the girls’ goodbye. “Don’t worry girls,” said Candy. “We’ll be back as soon as possible.”
Jack looked around at his family. A dark mist surrounded them, blurring their faces. For a moment, he felt as though none of this existed. Maybe it was nothing more than a foggy nightmare from which he couldn’t wake up. He climbed into the boat; the metal floor showed a scorched welded section, and the boat rocked in the murky water. Jack took a seat near the front. His glasses slid down his nose, and he pushed them back in place. Jody and Candy climbed in, followed by Andrew, a sniper rifle hanging from his back as he sat behind the steering section of the engine. Candy’s revolver was barely visible, hanging deftly from her faded police uniform. Jody’s shotgun rested over his broad shoulder.
Jack’s AR15 rested against his camouflage chest rigging. The rigging had three front pockets filled with extra magazines. He touched the cold metal and breathed deeply, taking in the dying world around him; he watched as the girls waved goodbye from the water’s edge, the exhaust from the engine made him grimace. Black swamp water gurgled around the boat’s exterior as Andrew guided them through the dark deathly water.
The air gushed around Jack’s face. He held his head high, making sure his glasses stayed put. Tall cypress jolted through the black water like moss-covered pillars. A sky free of clouds hung above, while a shadowy forest covered both sides of the water.
Jack found it hard to believe such dark beauty could exist. It was easy to forget about the dangers lying ahead. Staying within a safe distance of the swamp for the last year, he’d nearly forgotten that almost everyone he’d ever known had died, reanimated, and started eating the flesh off everyone in sight. The horror of those first days stuck with him, waking him up at night. To this day, the screams of children and cries of the elderly haunt his dreams. Traveling down the river was like a dream, and Jack’s mind drifted back to that first day of the Fever.
3
The news anchor blared, “Stay inside your homes. Lock your doors.”
Jack turned off the TV. His heart pounded, he had to save Papa. Had to get him out of that nursing home before it was too late. He called his cousins; their cell phones were still working then. They were on their way; the pandemonium in the streets was wild. People were unprepared for the horror of their situation.
Jack waited by the window. Time seemed too slow and ticked away with agony. He chewed at a nail. When his glasses slid down his face, he pushed them up his nose.
At the sight of Andrew’s black Humvee, draped in the color of camouflage, he breathed a little easier. He’d emptied his bag of all his college books earlier, filling it with foodstuffs instead — chocolates, canned beans, and SPAM.
He ran with earnest toward his cousin’s redneck dream of a truck, opened the door, and slammed it shut behind him. Before Andrew could lay on the pedal, flashing blue lights appeared from behind and swung around to the driver’s side. Candy’s voice echoed from a loudspeaker. “Follow me!” she cried. “There isn’t much time!” Jack noticed her daughters sitting in the back of the cruiser like a couple of child convicts.
As they dashed through the streets, the bodies of the recently deceased moved about, slow and jerking. Kids ran, and women screamed as their blood-drooling husbands dug their hungry teeth into their flesh. Nothing could be done to help them; the scene was far too chaotic. The window of opportunity would close, and soon Papa would be dead — or worse, reanimated and chewing on some sexy nurse.
The sky was dark, and rain threatened to make the rescue wet and dreary. The chaos was still new, and for that reason, people obeyed the flashing lights whirling above Candy’s patrol car. Vehicles let them pass, but the dead didn’t budge for a minute.
Candy swerved quickly to avoid hitting them and lost control. Steam gushed from the engine when it crashed into a tree. The air bag deployed, and Candy’s head snapped back. Jack heard the girls screaming in the backseat.
Andrew didn’t hesitate; he ploughed straight through a gang of zombies, their bodies crunched under the jacked-up suspension of the truck. “I told you it would come in handy one day!” he said.
A hoard of ten dead folks lurked toward Candy. She’d crawled out of the cruiser, and was lying on her knees at the edge of some grass that connected to a sidewalk; her daughters still screamed in the back. Andrew brought the Humvee to a screeching halt beside his sister.
The dead were only a few feet away.
Jack jumped out of the Humvee to help Candy, but no help was needed. Before the pitiful bastards had the chance to taste her pale freckled flesh, her revolver reported. Jack smiled with wild, adrenaline-induced excitement as the heads of the dead exploded, painting the asphalt with gray and bloody brain matter.
He’d never seen a head explode in real life. It was as though a small bomb had gone off, cracking open the victims’ skulls and erupting blood, brain and bone from the exit wound.
Smoke emanated from under the hood of the engine. Jack and Andrew were out of the Humvee; Candy was opening the back door. The girls’ blonde pigtails bounced as they leaped out of the cruiser. “Get ‘em in the Hummer! I gotta grab some shit!” said Candy.
Jack helped the girls into the Hummer, urging them to slide onto the gray leather seats. Andrew was at the cruiser with Candy, who grabbed the riot shotgun along with a huge black bag of ammunition and assorted rifles. On the side of the bag, written in large gold stenciled letters were the words, Sheriff’s Department.
“Jody’s already there, and he says it ain’t pretty!” Candy said as she and Andrew rushed back over to the Hummer. Her red hair was in wild disarray, her blue eyes gleaming with adrenaline. Around them, the world screamed with death.
Andrew jumped into the driver’s seat and pulled the trunk latch; Candy threw the guns and ammo in and closed the hatch. She climbed into the back with her girls and slammed the door.
“We set?” Andrew asked.
“Hit it!” Candy said.
Jack was watching the pandemonium as Andrew sped around crashed cars, running people over along with the stumbling dead, whose flying arms thudded against the vehicle’s hard exterior; snapping off with bloody precision as they attempted to reach for the bodies inside, unaware that their attempts were futile.
This time, the cars didn’t yield for them, but this was Andrew’s chance to show the world why he’d paid so much money to make his Hummer look like a Transformer, or modern dinosaur. The Hummer jumped over concrete curbing, tore through bushes, and drove through parking lots.
Ahead, the nursing home came into view and Jack’s stomach turned.
Hell was inching closer and closer, but what he saw almost caused him to pronounce Papa and Jody dead on arrival. Streaming out of the nursing home from a hospital across the street were hundreds of growling, recently-risen nurses, doctors, patients, and kids, oh my!
Then
he saw them. “There they are!” Jack shouted.
Miraculously, Jody stood beside Papa’s wheelchair, firing loud buck shots through the brains of the charging dead. Beside Jody, brandishing a sawed-off shotgun (presumably given to him by Jody, it was hardly an item the Calm Waters Nursing facility allowed), was Papa screaming obscenities and firing at the mob of death. They were completely cornered at the back entrance of the nursing facility. How in the name of Jesus and Lucifer they'd accomplished this incredible feat of survival, was beyond Jack's imagination—at least at that moment.
The Hummer stopped about twenty yards from the hungry crowd.
Andrew turned and shouted, “In the back!”
“Girls, you stay right here and don't move!”
They just stared at their mother and nodded, scared out of their wits.
Jack opened the trunk, and before him sat a collection of AR-15s, Ak-47s, and tactical vests already filled with extra magazines. This didn't include the bag of ammo Candy had thrown in. God bless rednecks, is all Jack could think.
He strapped on a vest, and grabbed an AR, pushed its stock against his shoulder, pointed the barrel in front of him, and moved strategically around the Humvee. God bless video games, he now thought. He'd only shot large rifles at the firing range a few times, but it was like the insane Virginia Tech shooter (who'd never actually had any training); when a person plays the scenario over and over in their head (or in a video game) the actions become internalized as though the person were doing it. The brain, by golly is an incredible piece of bioengineering, rather by God or Nature; the choice is yours to make.
